


Each Sunrise a Gift

by BiscuitsForPotter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coldplay lyric reference, Depressed Hermione, Depression, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gift Fic, Hopeful Ending, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Recovery, Supportive Draco Malfoy, dramione - Freeform, hermione granger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiscuitsForPotter/pseuds/BiscuitsForPotter
Summary: After the Second Wizarding War, life didn't go the way Hermione had expected. She's stuck at a mediocre desk job, her personal life is in shambles, and her coping mechanism is making it all worse. It seems no one has been in her corner for so many years. But if that's true, then why does Draco Malfoy keep bugging her at work?





	Each Sunrise a Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PartyLines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartyLines/gifts).



> A gift fic for PartyLines. Thank you so so so much to ravenslight for beta~ing. 
> 
> Inspired by the Coldplay song "Up & Up"
> 
> "We're gonna get it, get it together right now  
> Gonna get it, get it together somehow  
> Gonna get it, get it together and flower  
> Oh oh oh oh oh oh  
> We're gonna get it, get it together I know  
> Gonna get it, get it together and flow  
> Gonna get it, get it together and go  
> Up and up and up"

Two shots of firewhisky downed in one go.

That’s how Hermione started her morning. That’s how she had started every morning for the past… how long had it been? She had lost count, really.

It worked better than coffee, that was for sure. Yeah, the crash after lunch would be bad, but that’s what the bottle tucked away inside her desk was for.

Yes, Hermione Granger, war hero, former best friend to The Boy Who Lived, and witch extraordinaire was nothing short of a mess these days. And she knew it. Oh, how she knew it.

That’s why, sometimes, she took a third shot.

The day was just too hard to get through without it. People liked to ask questions – to pry into things that didn’t concern them – and Hermione would rather forget. She would rather forget a lot of things.

So she traveled through her days in a mild stupor, completing her work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures robotically and then heading home to her cat and more tumblers of liquor or glasses of wine until she passed out. Hermione always hoped her negative thoughts wouldn’t follow her into sleep, but they usually wormed their way into her dreams like Devil’s Snare snaking slowly into her consciousness until it choked her awake in a sweat-soaked panic.

Last night had been no different. She’d drank two bottles of wine and stumbled to bed around...what time had it been, anyway? Surely well past midnight... Thrown into a state of awareness at around four-thirty in the morning, Hermione sat up in her metal frame bed, her T-shirt stuck to her body and her breaths coming in short pants. Mere moments ago, she had once again been caught up in the Battle of Hogwarts, surrounded by the dead. Their faces still lingered behind her eyelids when she blinked.

Shaking her head, Hermione swung her legs over the side of her bed. There was no point trying to go back to sleep now, really. Stretching, she waded through the sea of rumpled undergarments, snack wrappers, and wine bottles littering her bedroom floor, following the narrow path she had cleared to the loo. Stacks of half-read books sat along her walls collecting dust. What was the point of tidying up if no one was ever going to see the inside of her flat, let alone her bedroom? Hermione had long abandoned the notion that her friends would visit her. She had lost them a while ago – Ron, after they had broken up and Harry, after she became “too much to handle.”

So much for friends.

The hot shower managed to clear her head, and she threw on some work clothes from her hamper: a blouse that needed ironing and a pencil skirt with a splotchy stain on the front. Casting _Scourgify_ on it seemed to fix the worst of the problem. Glancing at the clock next to her bed, she noticed it now read half-past five. Might as well head into work to get something done before anyone else arrived and could pester her.

The kitchen, much like her bedroom, was in a state of disarray. Half-scrubbed pots and plates filled the sink, taunting her as she toasted a piece of wheat bread. Their presence had been mocking her for days, but Hermione just couldn’t muster the energy to clean them.

By the time she finished her toast and gathered her briefcase, the clock ticked close to five-forty-five. Hermione marched over to her liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of Ogden’s and a shot glass. She poured one shot.

 _For bravery_ , she thought as she threw it back.

She poured another.

_To forget._

Before the alcohol had a chance to really affect her, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the grate, shouting, “The Ministry of Magic,” before she disappeared in the green flames.

The atrium was silent this time of morning – that’s why she liked to come in so early. No one was there yet except her, and that meant no interruptions, no nosy employees, and no acquaintances trying to get in touch with her.

Yes, early morning was the ideal time to work.

The firewhisky hit her as she entered the lift and punched the button that would take her to Level Four. The world faded into a softer, more pleasant version of itself, and Hermione felt herself relax as she drew closer to the DRCMC. On Level Four, her office was just down the corridor to the left. Years ago, one might have suspected that her desk would sit in the big office at the end of the hall, her name emblazoned on the door, but no. Over the past few years, she had earned quite the reputation at the Ministry, and it wasn’t exactly positive. Sure, she had once been poised to be the youngest head of the DRCMC ever, but when her life fell apart, it had bled into her work. Several very disappointed senior members of the department had her demoted again and again until she was little other than a paper pusher, shoved into a forgotten side office by herself.

Collapsing behind her small desk, she summoned the pot of coffee she had charmed to brew whenever her magical signature first arrived in the Ministry for the day; it was always hot and ready by the time she arrived in her office. Hermione poured some into a mug, topping it off with another shot of firewhisky taken from the stash in her bottom drawer.

She took a sip and sighed, setting down her mug and bracing herself for the day. Before she even had a chance to check her inbox, a sharp knocking at her door interrupted her. Blast. Was _he_ really already at work as well? Sighing, she droned, “Come in.”

“You’re in early, Granger,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. Hermione grimaced. Why was it that Draco Malfoy always arrived at work when she did? He always sought her out specifically, it seemed. To chat. To ask a question. To offer some sweets. To tell her a joke. To inform her of the weather forecast.

To be a thorn in her side.

“Merlin and Morgana, Draco, why is it you always feel the need to talk to me? You don’t even work for this department.” Hermione rubbed her temples as the blond slipped into her office, a paper bag in hand.

“Clearly,” he scoffed. “You’d never catch me on this floor otherwise.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and took a gulp of the scalding-hot, whisky-laced coffee, praying it would give her the patience she needed to speak to this pain in her arse.

“So what are you doing here _this_ time?”

“I’m just stopping by to give you a muffin.” He held up the paper bag. “And also to let you know that I overheard an… interesting conversation pertaining to you between the head of your department and mine yesterday.”

“Oh?” Hermione tried to feign disinterest as she shuffled papers around. Draco set the muffin down on her desk and sat down in the chair across from her. He took a deep breath, his grey eyes serious.

“They want to fire you.”

Hermione blanched. “They what?”

“Fire you. They were… erm… talking about your attitude and performance level. You don’t need to hear the gory details.” He waved off these last few words as if they were nothing.

Fire surged through her body as her jaw tightened, hot rage filling her belly. “I don’t need to hear the details? They’re going to _fire_ me, and I don’t need to hear the details? Are you kidding me, Draco?”

The man sitting across from her sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You can probably guess what they said.”

“No, I really can’t. Tell me.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Tell me.”

“Granger, really– ”

“Tell me, dammit!” Hermione shouted, jumping to her feet. She slammed her fist on the desk and Draco jerked away. “What horrible things are they saying about me now? Because believe me when I say that I’ve heard it all. If it’s anything new, I’ll be shocked.”

“They’re saying–” Draco stood as well, licking his lips, his fingers fidgeting. “They’re saying your drinking is interfering with your work.”

Her stomach bottomed out, the fire settling deeper within. She gulped, her lips curling in a snarl. From her pocket, she withdrew her wand, and she pointed right at Draco’s jugular. “Excuse me?”

“I believe the exact words they used were ‘washed-up, drunk’,” Draco whispered apologetically, wringing his hands.

Hermione needed to be alone right now. She needed to put up a silencing charm and scream. She needed way more firewhisky than was sitting in her desk right now.

“Get out.”

Draco stood in silence for a moment. He folded his arms. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no. I’m not leaving you. The last thing you need right now is to be left alone.”

“How do you know what’s good for me? What if I want to be alone?”

“Too bad. I’m not going anywhere.” Draco plopped back down into the chair, pulling the pastry from the bag. “Muffin?” He offered it up, a smile tugging on his lips.

Hermione snapped.

She wasn’t sure exactly why she was furious, but it was all bubbling up now. Was she angry at Malfoy for casually inserting himself into her life at all the wrong moments? Or was she angry at her bosses for wanting to fire her when work was the only thing she had going for her? Perhaps she was angry because everything that had gone rotten with her life was finally catching up to her.

She slashed her wand across her chest; the contents of her desk flew in every direction. The shards of her coffee mug tinkled, and papers flew every which way. A grim satisfaction filled Hermione as she watched the life she despised smash at her own hand. Another flick of her wrist and the filing cabinets burst open, their contents spilling onto the stone floor. Hermione’s chest heaved with emotion as she smashed up her office again and again with every wave of her wand. Destroying this symbol of her mediocrity – this bureaucrat’s desk that was the culmination of years of trying and failing to get her life right – gave her an odd sense of relief, and the pain in her chest began to fade into an odd sort of tightness.

Out of nowhere, a laugh burst out of her mouth. How ridiculous must this look? Here she was, half-drunk at six in the morning, her office looking like it had been hit by a hurricane. In the middle of it all sat her childhood nemesis. Draco had barely budged through her entire tantrum, his eyes on her as he took small bites of the muffin. It was weird, though. The only one who ever really checked in on her – the only one to ever give a damn about her – was Draco bloody Malfoy.  

Not Harry. Not Ron. Not even her own parents.

As their faces floated past the front of her mind, the laughter faded on her lips, and a sob welled up in her chest instead. She felt her legs wobble beneath her.

It seemed Draco had been anticipating this, because as they gave out, he was by her side, strong arms wrapped around her shoulders to help ease her to the ground. He hushed her gently as she hiccupped through her tears, rocking her as she huddled on the floor amidst her mess. No words were exchanged, but she could feel the pad of his thumb rubbing small circles in her shoulder as the tears kept coming.

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she sat and cried in her office. It might have been the alcohol that made her extra weepy; or perhaps it was the fact that she had an audience. Never before had she had such an outburst in front of anyone – not even Ron. No, she hadn’t shown much emotion around him. How could she have? Not when he had needed such support.

She had tamped down her feelings to support the emotional healing of others after the war, leaving her own issues on the side. Everyone always seemed to need her, and it had eaten away at her self-esteem slowly.

That’s why she had begun drinking. A couple glasses of wine after a long day at work turned into a tumbler of firewhisky after difficult conversations with Ron; that, in turn, became a glass or two before those conversations until she stopped caring what he said to her and his harsh words couldn’t break through.

Until they did.

It wasn’t until one phrase got through that she really broke inside.

_“I’m sick of you.”_

It was the last thing he had said before he broke up with her and told her to get out of their shared flat. She had stayed with Harry for a time and had even tried to open up to him. But when Ginny found out she was pregnant, Harry had asked her to move on. She couldn’t get his words out of her head either:

_“I just can’t deal with you right now.”_

So Hermione had found her own place and had gained an even greater dependence on her drinks. With no one to take care of and no one to look in on her, she had spiraled. Of course, she knew she had a problem. She wasn’t stupid. But why should she fight for herself when no one would fight for her?

The thumb tracing patterns on her shoulder brought her back to the present. She stared at it, her sobs having faded to sniffles. It was then that an odd thought crossed her mind: despite her violent outburst, her screaming, and her poisonous words, Draco Malfoy had stayed. He had seen her at basically her worst, and he was still here.

He was still fucking here.

Hermione turned to face the man beside her. She expected to see disgust or pity on his face; after all, that was how Ron and Harry had reacted to her spiraling drinking problem, respectively. Instead, she found he wore an altogether different expression. His silver eyes were clouded with worry, yes, but something about them was decidedly soft and kind.

With a shuddering breath, she leaned into him. He hugged her tighter.

“I’m sorry, she murmured.

“For what? You clearly had to get that emotion out somehow. Your office can be easily fixed.” Draco spoke in soft tones as he used his fingers to tuck an errant curl behind her ear.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and stared at the paper-covered floor. They sat in silence for a moment before she spoke again.

“You stayed. Why?”

“Because I care. It kills me to see you so broken.”

Hermione sat up, separating herself from Draco by a few inches. “You care? Since when?”

“Since the war ended, I guess.”

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. When she didn’t say anything in response, Draco seemed to take it as his cue to continue.

“I just… couldn’t help but notice the way you held yourself. Everyone else broke down at some point. Hell, I broke down. Lots of people went away for a month or two and came back looking alive again. I went to France. Potter disappeared to the seaside. Weasley did that summer-long Quidditch league tour. But you? You buckled down and sat through every trial. You never missed a class during our last year at Hogwarts or a day of work once we graduated. You kept a stiff upper lip even when no one else could.”

Draco paused at this point, his eyes searching hers for something.

“You’ve got to let it out – let it go some time, Hermione. I kept waiting for you to have that moment of release with Weasley and then with Potter, but for some goddamn reason, they always seemed to make things worse for you.”

Hermione noticed that his hands had balled into fists as he spoke. A strange feeling had taken hold in her stomach. It wasn’t anger or sadness. In fact, she wasn’t sure if it was anything negative at all. Whatever it was swirled as Draco clearly tried to control his tone of voice.

“That’s why I started stopping by every day. Just little check-ins. Making sure you came to work and that you ate something. Making sure you could walk straight and that you made it home safely at the end of the day. I knew it bugged the shit out of you, but I was afraid if I made my intentions clear, you would push me away.”

She gulped.

“And what… what are your intentions?” Hermione managed to croak the question, though her mind was now spinning much like her stomach.

“I like you, Granger.”

Hermione choked on her own spit as she sucked in her breath and coughed simultaneously. She felt her face heat up when Draco patted her back to stop the spluttering. When she felt her airways clear, she shook her head in disbelief.

“You what?”

“I like you. A lot.”

Draco said it as though he were explaining the nocturnal nature of owls – as though it was a simple, obvious fact. There was no hint of sarcasm or deceit on his face. Hermione’s eyes traveled to the violent mess she had made of her office and to the drawer in her desk where her precious bottle of firewhisky sat, still untouched. How she longed for a swig… even just a sip…

She shook her head. No. Not now. Not this time. She asked the only question she could think to ask.

“But why?”

“You’re the strongest damn woman I’ve ever met. Yeah, you’ve got a lot going against you, but I also know you’re the woman who rode on the back of a dragon and survived my deranged aunt torturing you and carried the weight of two clueless Gryffindors on your back through an entire war.”

Hermione gave a bitter laugh. It tasted like firewhisky and regret.

“That was old Hermione. She’s long gone, Draco.”

He smirked, reaching up to her desk and feeling around. Pulling the paper bag down, Draco tore off another chunk of the muffin and popped it in his mouth.

“Nah. She’s still there. Just needs a little time and care is all.” He offered a small smile and tore another piece off, holding it out. “Muffin?”

The look on his face was so earnest – so sincere – that Hermione burst into tears once more. She felt silly, crying so much, but it didn’t seem that Draco minded. He continued to rub her back for several more minutes until she calmed down once more. This time when he offered the muffin, she took it, chewing on a small bite. The moment the pastry hit her tongue, she felt the buttery sweetness fill her mouth, and she gave a satisfied moan. She had expected it to taste like cardboard, much as nearly all food had tasted for her in recent years, but it didn’t. It tasted delicious. It tasted like heaven. Hermione stuffed the rest of the morsel into her mouth.

Draco chuckled and offered the rest of it up. She ate with a voracious fervor until nothing was left but the crumbs that had fallen haphazardly on her skirt.

“Hermione, will you… will you let me give you a little time and care?”

Hermione froze. Did he realize what he was asking? Didn’t he realize that he would be headed for a trainwreck if he came into her life? Her mind began to spiral, but before any thoughts could take hold, she glanced back at Draco. There was that look again: unflinching, determined, and gentle.

She found herself nodding.

“All right.”

After a beat, Draco hopped to his feet. Hermione flinched at the sudden movement but followed his blond head with her eyes as he stepped over strewn papers and smashed inkwells. After only a few moments, his destination became clear: the bottom drawer of her desk. He opened the shameful space and pulled out her hidden stash.

Shaking the bottle so the remaining amber liquid sloshed around, he beckoned her over. Her hands shaking, she pushed herself to her feet.

“I want you to throw it away.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “Th… throw it away? Right now?”

“Yeah. I want you to toss it in the bin and then go tell those sods you work for that you quit.”

If she hadn’t been shocked before, she certainly was now. Her jaw dropped lower.

“This job is no good for you. You can do so much better than pushing paper for these tossers. If you want to come back later, that’s fine, but this place is toxic for you right now. Throw the damn whisky away, get the fuck out of here, and start over.”

The way Draco talked, it was like the path forward was clear and simple, but to her, his vision was nothing short of daunting, perhaps impossible. As she stared at the man before her, all the hellish events of the past ten years of her life passed through her memory. All the death. All the disappointment.

_“I’m sick of you.”_

_“I just can’t deal with you right now.”_

Hermione wanted nothing more than to snatch that bottle from Draco’s hands and down it all in one go. She reached forward to make her move, but when her eyes met his grey ones for the third time that night, she froze.

_“Will you let me give you a little time and care?”_

Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, Hermione strode forward and snatched the bottle from his hands. Her heart pounded in her ears as she fixated on it for just one second more, the contents nearly hypnotizing her. Damn this stuff. Damn it all.

She vanished it with a wave of her wand and a growl.

Draco now stood empty-handed, his cheeks lopsided from his trademark smirk.

“Well done, Granger. Now let’s free you from this hellhole.”

Not even bothering to clean up the wreckage, the two of them strode into the corridor to the office at the end. By this point, Hermione’s mind was past the point of clarity, and when she looked back on the next few minutes, hours, and even days, everything blurred together.

She didn’t exactly remember the words she used to quit, but her boss hadn’t made a fuss.

She didn’t remember leaving the Ministry by Floo with Draco’s arm wrapped around her shoulder, nor did she remember the details of the emotional breakdown she had as soon as her feet made contact with the grate in her flat.

She didn’t remember the gory details of her detox. Of course, Hermione knew symptoms of withdrawal; she had researched them years ago: tremors, pain, fever, nausea, confusion…

Draco said she had experienced them all.

The only memory from that week that seemed to linger was the cool sensation of Draco’s fingers brushing hair from her sweaty forehead.

After those initial days, the world became clearer… brighter, somehow. Thinking of her friends’ abandonment still hurt, and the itch to drink still haunted nearly every waking minute, but those itches seemed to grow duller by the day.

As promised, Draco took care of her. She moved out of her old flat and into his spare bedroom. He had binned all his alcohol to prove his commitment (though later, Hermione learned, he had really donated it all to Blaise Zabini). They spent their days reading on the sofa or taking walks around the city. When he found her having a panic attack on the bathroom floor, huddled in the foetal position, lungs on fire and half-blind, he held her for over an hour, whispering soft words in her ear.

It was after this incident that she decided to sign up for her local chapter of AA. After talking it through with Draco, she came to the conclusion that a muggle setting was better for this part of her recovery. Meetings were once a week in the basement of a local church, and Hermione held herself accountable to not miss a single meeting, regardless of whatever else was going on in her life. Talking about her addiction honestly with people who had no preconceived notions that she was the brightest witch of her age made opening up much easier, and she always returned home on Thursday nights feeling lighter.

When Draco kissed her six months after she got sober, Hermione’s hands flew to her lips after his had brushed her own. They had been chatting on his sofa as he leaned on her shoulder, half paying attention to the books in their laps. His lips had felt lovely and soft, and butterflies erupted in her stomach.

She kissed him back.

Not even two months later, Hermione found herself straddling Draco in that exact spot, her whole body a livewire. His hands were everywhere, and they made her feel alive… feel real. As he leaned in to kiss her neck, she heard him whisper three small words that sent her mind reeling and her heart beating out of her chest.

“I love you.”

Hermione laughed, tilting her head to give him better access. “That’s pretty stupid of you.”

He attacked, swirling his tongue against her hot flesh and working his way up to her ear. Nibbling her earlobe, she could feel him grinning against her skin.

“You can call me an idiot all you want, but I think that falling for you was the smartest damn thing I ever did.”

They had planned on waiting at least until the one-year anniversary of her sobriety to have sex.

That didn’t quite pan out.

By the time Hermione asked to move into his bedroom, they had already christened most of his flat. His favorite spot was still the sofa. Hers was the delightfully large clawfoot tub in the master bath.

Overall, life had been getting better by the day. Cutting herself off from her old life had lifted a weight off her shoulders she hadn’t known she had been carrying. Air flowed through her lungs more easily, everyday tasks seemed less intimidating, and emotions she had been sure she would never feel again – emotions like joy, excitement, and anticipation – came back to her bit by bit. They came mostly in little moments: the first crisp leaves of autumn; getting a brain freeze with Draco when they tucked into a pint of ice cream too quickly; celebrating fifteen months of sobriety with her AA mentor.

Yes, everything seemed to be on the up and up.

And then Ron Weasley got engaged. The announcement was splashed across half of the third page of the _Daily Prophet_ , a picture of him and some tart taking up an absurd amount of space.

Draco had come home from shopping that day to find Hermione drunk on cooking sherry and the mouthwash from their shared bathroom, the mirror shattered and blood streaming down her knuckles.

She could have melted into the floor from her shame.

Detox wasn’t as physically painful as it had been the first time, but every time she thought of what she had done, she wanted to scream at herself for being so stupid.

Instead, she had screamed at Draco – screamed until she was hoarse and her eyes had run dry.

Only then did he approach her, placing his forehead against hers. When his lips brushed hers, the world finally began to right itself.

Hermione Granger had come to the conclusion that she was never meant to live an easy life; years of bullying, war, depression, and addiction had taught her that. Sometimes, all her negative thoughts and memories swirled around her, nearly swallowing her whole. In those moments, she truly felt as though she were trying to empty out an ocean’s-worth of pain with a spoon.

It was in those moments that she always searched for Draco’s eyes – grey, warm, and kind. Those were they eyes that had saved her, though he always insisted she had been the one to take the steps to save herself; she had, after all, never returned to work for the Ministry. Instead, Hermione had decided to turn her pain into a non-profit organisation that helped other witches suffering from troubles with addiction. No longer a paper pushing bureaucrat, Hermione walked through a door emblazoned with her name each day ready to make a difference in someone’s life.

Draco always liked to point this out on her bad days.

It had been her who had proposed marriage nearly three years to the day after she vanished that first bottle of firewhisky.

He had, of course, said yes.

The next day, Hermione spat her coffee out all over the newspaper. Draco had taken out a full-page ad in the _Daily Prophet_ announcing their engagement. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to murder him or kiss him.

She eventually opted for the latter.

The path ahead still looked daunting, and sometimes Hermione wasn’t sure how she would handle it all. She wanted to see the world. To write a book. To hold Draco close to her heart as long as she could. She wanted to carry a child that would have Draco’s kind eyes.

Those were the thoughts that stopped her from beginning her day with those two shots of firewhisky.

Now, as the morning light filtered through the airy curtains and painted everything in soft pinks and yellows, Hermione instead began her day with two loving eyes gazing at her.

“Good morning, love,” Draco murmured, nuzzling her cheek.

Hermione didn’t respond verbally but instead drew him in for a long kiss. As their limbs began to tangle together, their bodies seeking pleasure and their hearts seeking love and reassurance, Hermione felt a sense of calm wash over her.

Her life was bound to have more setbacks; that was practically a guarantee. But the rough sensation of Draco’s morning stubble brushing against her soft skin and the steady touch of his hands on her waist kept her grounded. He was meant to be by her side no matter what awaited her in the future.

After, as they curled into each other, Draco planted a kiss on her forehead and whispered their daily mantra in her ear; the words sent shivers up her spine as resolve flowed through her veins:

“When you’re in pain—when you think you’ve had enough—don’t ever give up.”

**Author's Note:**

> You deserve love. 
> 
> BiscuitsForPotter


End file.
